


solstice

by theadventuresof



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, drunken debauchery, request, the original uchiha brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: Izuna has entirely too much fun at the Uchiha winter festival.





	solstice

Izuna is _drunk._ Plastered, sloshed, totally inebriated. It’s been the clan’s hardest winter yet. He _deserves_ this. Better yet, he’s reached the stage of the evening when the silver-tongued drunken loquaciousness has just begun to set in. Izuna loves the sound of his voice on a good day, but tonight he’s _enamored_ with it. He’s struck up a conversation with one of the quieter, boring, plain-robed clansmen by the edge of the crowd and the man is just letting Izuna and his abundant jewelry talk at him, interjecting every so often with a “hmm” or a knowing “yeah”, as if he’s in on some joke that Izuna’s missing out on. It’s been close to three hours and there’s still no sign of Madara out here at the bonfire, which Izuna finds deeply unprofessional. It’s also _very_ cold out here with just a charred and sake-drenched cloak for protection against the wind. He shares this information with his interlocutor with the intention of ending the conversation and embarking on a drunken search, because really, it’s about time he finds Madara and drags him up to the dance floor. It’s not a festival without a bit of public humiliation, Izuna thinks.

“Have you seen my brother?” he asks the man. “He told me he’d show up eventually, but knowing him, he’s probably crying alone in his quarters because he couldn’t get a date.”

“It’s me, dumbass,” Madara says in response, and Izuna wheezes with laughter at his own stupendous incompetence.

“I know that,” he says loudly. “Of course it is.” He turns to the crowd. “This is my _brother,_ ” he shouts. Several heads turn. Izuna seizes Madara’s wrist and holds his hand up above both their heads. “My brother, who, by the way, just turned twenty s—”

“Stop talking right now,” Madara says, smiling.

“—who recently celebrated his ninetieth birthday—is the best dancer out of—of everyone here!” Izuna finishes grandly. Madara smiles, mostly out of exasperation, but even Izuna, in his advanced state of inebriation, can tell that he’s pleased. He’s _preening_ a little bit, looking not unlike one of his more arrogant falcons.

“I’m not dancing tonight,” Madara says, to general disappointment. He adjusts his collar importantly.

Izuna grins deviously, reaches into the crowd, and pulls Hikaku out of thin air. “Tell Madara to dance,” he demands.

Hikaku rubs his shoulder. “Dance, Madara. Izuna, how much have you had?”

“Madar _aaaa,”_ Izuna whines, ignoring Hikaku completely and turning his cloak around so that the enormous charred hole above the ass doesn’t face out into the wind, “come and _dance,_ come on, _everybody_ wants to see you _dance_ , you don’t want to disappoint them…”

The crowd is catching on. Izuna blinks up at Madara with his best doe-eyed pout. “I’ll dance with you,” he says, his voice low and solemn.

Madara grins and unties his sash. “Lend me your facepaints,” he says, and that’s the last thing Izuna remembers.

* * *

“I think my piercing’s getting infected,” Izuna groans, gently pinching his inflamed earlobe between a thumb and forefinger. Oh, talking hurts. It’s only an hour or two after sunrise and somehow, miraculously, he’s actually awake.

Madara looks up from his sewing project and purses his lips at him. “Did you use a clean needle?”

“I washed it in a puddle beforehand. Pass me the bucket?”

Madara absentmindedly hands it over and gets back to his stitching. Izuna puts his head between his knees and tries not to think about food, alcohol, or fire for a while. Breathing hurts too, he realizes, and the ends of his hair are singed. The smell is awful. It also stirs up several liquor-soaked memories.

“Did you dance last night?” Izuna says abruptly, through a wave of piercing nausea. “Did I get you to dance?”

Madara doesn’t answer for a while. When the urge to vomit has subsided, Izuna moves his head a fraction of a millimeter and watches his brother's face curiously. He looks overwhelmingly serious, but maybe he’s just very intent on his work.

“Yes,” Madara says at last. “It went well. We made quite a bit of money.”

“Good,” Izuna mutters, rolling over and pulling his blankets up over his head.

Madara says something else, but he says it so quietly and in such a rush that Izuna misses it entirely. “What?” he croaks.

“I said,” Madara repeats, with the air of one about to deliberately pluck a trip wire, “the Senju showed up.”

Izuna sits up so abruptly he gives himself a splinter. “What?” he splutters. His head throbs. “Really?”

“Really,” Madara says, doggedly continuing to sew. “Around two in the morning. You know how the Senju drink. The only reason it didn’t end up a complete bloodbath was because by that point everyone was too drunk to move.”

“Except for you.”

“Yes,” Madara says. He snaps the thread between his teeth and holds up Izuna’s newly-repaired cloak. “There. Don’t sit in the bonfire again.”

“Was _he_ there?” Izuna says with keen interest, piling the cloak on top of his blankets and pulling the whole thing up to his chin. The splinter twinges.

“Yes, he was,” Madara says, determinedly casual, “and I’m sure he doesn’t remember one bit of it, thankfully—not that any of it matters; I’m sure there are worse outfits to be caught in unawares by your archenemy—not that I can think of any right now—and I am never dancing in public again, so I hope you enjoyed my career while it lasted.” He slams the sewing kit closed with unnecessary venom. “Next year we’re staying at the compound for the bonfire. It’s cheaper, anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Izuna watches his brother stand up and return the sewing kit to its plain shelf. His immense hangover has slowed his reaction time down by a significant amount, but still, he thinks he has a pretty shrewd idea of _exactly_ what Madara was thinking.

“I’m going to bed,” Madara announces, “I haven’t slept yet. Be ready to work when I get back. We have a lot to do today.”

Izuna’s eyes refuse to focus on his hand. He bites his palm around the area of the splinter. It doesn’t help. “Wait,” he calls to Madara. Madara pauses in the doorway. He sighs.

“What?”

Izuna puts on his famous pout as Madara turns around, and as his tired face softens Izuna knows he’s got him hooked. “Can you get this splinter out before you go?” he says, but Madara is already coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> from tumblr: "pls... for the love of god..... do smth w/ izuna being a little (lovable) shit head to madara... or just... izuna giving madara headaches w/ his Antics. thank you"
> 
> i had to include a bit of hashirama in this because that's just Who I Am


End file.
